


All the Secrets I Never Told You

by Salios



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Glompfest 2018, M/M, Werefox Sheriff Stilinski, Werefox Stiles, get-together, prompt, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-07 02:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14070486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salios/pseuds/Salios
Summary: When they're warned of an incoming hunter-threat, the pack prepares for another fight.Instead, they realise that someone might not be who they appear.Stiles comes to terms with his own feelings and decides who to trust.





	All the Secrets I Never Told You

Stiles is a werefox, which is really rare so was taught to not tell anyone. The pack doesn’t know until hunters come looking for him.

 

————————

Dirt. Leaves. Rot. Dander. Pollen. Grass. Bark.

Blood.

Stiles launched himself from the underbrush, mouth open and teeth bared. He caught a wrist as he sailed by, fangs sinking through skin and ripping muscle as his jaws crunched on cartilage. There was a high pitched scream and then the wrist in his mouth was tugged harshly away. He let it go and rolled into the fall. He came up running and dashed around the legs of two hunters and back into the bushes.

Gunshots, swearing, the muffled screams of a hunter now sporting a permanently mangled wrist.

Blood coated Stiles’ muzzle and teeth, sliding across his tongue like liquid pennies.

In a  _ whump _  of sound, the world changed around him and he was suddenly six feet up and on two feet instead of four. With a wicked, bloody grin he flung out his hands and snuffed out the screams of his prey.

The hunters collapsed to the ground in a spray of gore that would dye the bark of the birch trees behind them.

Stiles huffed and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. There was skin stuck between his teeth and he absently poked at the strand with his tongue while he circled the fresh corpses. Disposal was always the most difficult part of this job; he needed the bodies gone without drawing any attention. In the preserve that was more difficult than you’d think, considering the pack of werewolves and other creatures that called it home. Stiles, of course, being one of that number. He could encourage the natural world around him into action, nudge the earth and the flora to grow or die, even to shift locations though very slowly. But he didn’t quite have a handle on the other elements; air, water, light, and dark.

So, sticking to what he could immediately affect, Stiles drew in a breath, opened his hands, and convinced the earth that he’d just given it a nice, tasty treat.

There was a rumble from deep below as bedrock shifted and reformed, boulders beneath the loamy ground grinding together as the bedrock beneath moved. And then, all at once, the bodies disappeared into the earth with soft  _ whump _ s. The displacement of air as they were sucked through loose dirt and down, down, down. As the ground settled, Stiles shifted his focus to the flora. He couldn’t exactly wash the trees; the hunters’ blood was already dying the birch bark pink. But he could hide it from view, obscure the scent.

His lashes fluttered and his nose wrinkled as Stiles focused. The birch trees doused in blood began to grow. Their bodies aged quickly and visibly, bark growing and sloughing off in strips until the stained pieces were free. The plants below them aged too, growing in size and multiplying, leaves dropping off only to grow back bright and full seconds later. The old leaves gathered atop the old bark and with a pinch of focus Stiles began the process of rot within them.

Work completed, he staggered back against a clean tree and slid into a squat. Feet planted and chest heaving Stiles sat there until his heart slowed to a gentler rhythm. When spots no longer danced before his eyes the man stood with a pop of joints and surveyed his work.

He could see where the trees had grown taller than their siblings, and where the flora ringing the base was just a bit greener than the rest, less bug-eaten. It wasn’t perfect, which was probably a good thing, but it would do.

With one last glance around Stiles stepped forward and shifted from one form into another. He had more work to do.

———————

“Dude, you’re late.”

Stiles made a point to not look Scott in the eyes as he bounded up the stairs at the front of the rebuilt Hale house.  _ ‘It’s a trap!’ _  Admiral Ackbar screamed in the back of his mind.

“Sorry bro got busy.” Technically not a lie. Stiles still had to fight to keep his ears from twitching though. Even in his full human form, it was a habit he’d never been able to break. When he was agitated his ears broadcasted his feelings. Scott, the gentle idiot, had never caught onto his tell. Stiles made sure to avoid poker though, he couldn’t bluff worth shit with his ears giving him away.

“Oh? Busy how?” Erica waggled her brows at him with a knowing grin from the porch swing, her head in Boyd’s lap. She pointedly sniffed the air, “Sure do smell squeaky clean, I wonder why?”

Stiles coughed and shrugged. It was easier to let her think he’d had some alone time with his hand before coming over than trying to lie and giving himself away. He’d learned to lie by omission long before  _ werewolves _  came into the picture. “You can probably guess.” He stepped inside the house, holding the screen door open for Scott, and glanced into the kitchen and opposing living room. Isaac and Allison were curled on the loveseat and talking quietly while Lydia and Jackson argued with pointed looks over a magazine, Danny watching bemusedly. Kira was asleep on the couch with her head hanging over the edge, a line of drool just starting to crest atop her lip.

“Where’s the big guy?”

“Right here,” came a low purr from behind Stiles.

The fox yelped and jumped, lashing out behind him with a backhand. Surprisingly, he connected with a loud  _ whap _ .

Peter staggered away with a bright red cheek and wide, surprised eyes. He was usually too quick for anyone to get a hit on, but Stiles had managed it without meaning to. The wolf looked surprised and his human-pale eyes flared bright blue as the wolf peered out in interest.

There was a moment of silence before a collective ‘ _ ooooohhhhhh’ _  went out from the pack.

Erica, having followed Scott in and standing at the door, threw her head back and cackled. Jackson was slack-jawed beside Lydia’s quiet smugness and Danny’s exasperation. Isaac and Allison looked surprised if pleased, and Kira was only just coming around as the pack cajoled. The slap Scott gave Stiles’ should had him staggering and he dropped his head.

“I’m impressed,” Peter murmured while he touched his healing cheek with gentle fingers. “I’ll have to work a little harder next time.”

“Noooooo,” Stiles groaned. The last thing he needed was  _ Peter _  of all people focusing his attention on him. He was a wily, determined asshat too smart for Stiles’ good. “It was just a lucky shot, I flail and sometimes I manage to hit something, you all know that.” Stiles skittered around Peter’s broad form and into the kitchen, Erica’s continued laughter following him. “And I wasn’t even asking about you!” He threw over his shoulder.

The amount of craft he had worked earlier had been incredibly draining and the quick meal he’d scarfed down before coming wasn’t doing the job. So Stiles scavenged through the fridge and cupboard before he came up with canned soup, some thick sourdough bread, and a block of aged cheddar.

The pack gathered in the kitchen as he worked on his lunch, taking their usual seats and chatting absently. As he was plating the broiled rarebit — broiled cheese atop bread — there was a sniff and a soft rumble atop Stiles’ right shoulder. Without pausing he rerouted one of the pieces from the pan and into Derek’s face.

There was a grunt and a  _ crunch _  as the werewolf bit down on the toast, followed by a soft hum.

“Toasted cheese?” He asked softly, crunching continuing as he spoke around the treat.

“More or less, yeah. Just wanted something warm and filling.” Stiles bit down on a warm piece and hummed, passing the toast back to Derek to finish.

“Stiles!”

“Mrf??” He glanced over at the table filled with his pack and found them staring. “Wha?”

Erica winked and made a gesture with her hands that had Kira snorting into her hands. “Warm and filling? Really? You could have just asked.”

Stiles frowned. “Erica… I get that you care, but you can’t cook for shit.”

Kira slipped out of her chair to laugh on the ground. Scott joined her, red-faced.

The blonde growled and flipped Stiles off with a claw. “Derek, you idiot, you should have asked Derek!”

Frowning Stiles looked over his shoulder at Derek, who shrugged. “Why? I mean, I just — “

“For the  _ dick _ !”

The entire table burst out into peals of laughter while Stiles’ jaw dropped and his cheeks flushed hotly. Derek’s ears were burning red and his mouth was pursed.

“You guys are such  _ assholes _ .” Stiles crammed another slice of rarebit into his mouth, shoved the plate at Derek, and took his place to the right of the table’s head, giving Erica’s shin a kick on the way. She didn’t even bother to dodge, too focused on breathing through her laughter.

“As much as I like seeing you all get along, I was hoping we could discuss business.”

Instantly the pack straightened and stared at the doorway where Chris Argent stood, Stiles’ dad at his shoulder.

“Of course, Chris. Have a seat. John?” Derek gestured at the table and the pack shifted to accommodate by pulling up extra chairs and shifting down. “What are we dealing with?”

“What else,” Peter drawled from the kitchen island, “hunters.”

Chris nodded. “But not just one or two. There was a group supposed to arrive today and another to follow a few days after. I only found out because I was looking for it. Things have been too quiet lately.” At the disbelieving snorts, he amended, “On the human front.”

“What are they here for? I thought we had a truce.” It was a point of constant worry for Derek and, by extension, the pack. While the hunters who followed the code had inked a truce with them, there were always rogue factions with their own beliefs that acted outside of the agreed purview. To them, the Hale pack was just another nest of monsters that needed to be cleared out.

“We do, and they’re abiding by it. But they’re hunting for something specific and it isn’t a wolf.” Chris took from his bag a binder and handed it to Derek only for Stiles to snatch it away and begin flipping through.

The first few pages were coded messages from between Chris and his contacts and who were presumably the hunters coming into town. He could eventually read them himself, but there wasn’t much point at that moment. So he flipped through until he found the neat point-form notes at the back listing what Chris had gathered. Skimming through and reading under his breath Stiles reached the halfway point and froze, breath caught in his chest. He read it again. And again.

The words weren’t changing on the page and, in a fit of panic, he looked up at his dad.

The panic must have been plain on his face as the older man stepped closer and looked down at the page.

Stiles leant into his dad’s shoulder, forehead against the skin-warmed fabric of his uniform shirt, and breathed in. Home. Safety. Family. His short breaths came easier and his fingertips stopped burning from where claws were attempting to form. He had been just shy of a panic attack, and this was likely the worst place to have it, considering the circumstances.

“You’re sure, Chris?” John looked up from the page and set his left hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, thumb rubbing under his ear reassuringly. “I thought you said there weren’t many kinds of shifters, and you never mentioned this.”

Chris sighed and looked over at Allison, the brunette frowning at her father with a soft moue to her mouth. “Weres and shifters are two types of supernatural beings but are usually grouped as one. And there are far more than what we have in the Bestiary. There are larger versions with rarer creatures, older myths, but the Argent Bestiary — or, the one we use the most — only deals with the kinds of creatures we routinely find and hunt.” He absently popped his fingers with the thumb of the same hand, a habit Stiles had seen Allison exhibit previously. “What they’re hunting is rare, even by our standards. They were hunted to extinction hundreds of years ago.”

John nodded at the notes, “That’s not what they think.”

“Wait, hold on, what are we talking about here?” Scott interjected. His brow was furrowed and he looked just as lost as the rest of the room.

Chris sighed. “Were-foxes.”

“...That’s a thing?” Erica didn’t look impressed. “So like, what, they turn into gingers or something?” She grinned at her bad joke but the expression began to slip as no one laughed.

“They’re similar to werewolves in that they have multiple forms. Human, beta, alpha, and full-shift.” Chris waited for the murmur to die down before he continued. “They don’t have a pack structure like wolves do, many of them living solitary lives. That’s how they were hunted so thoroughly; they didn’t have the protection of a pack to insulate and care for them. No warning system or allies to hide them from enemies.”

“Have you seen one then? Ever encountered a were-fox?” John’s hand squeezed around the back of Stiles’ neck and he sucked in another breath.

Chris frowned at the Sheriff, “No, they went extinct hundreds of years ago. They aren’t even a species we teach about.” He frowned at John, confused. “I literally just said that…”

“But we’ve seen a lot of weird things in Beacon Hills. The Alpha Pack, the Nogitsune, Darachs, Hellhounds…” Allison rattled off the ever-growing list of supernatural ‘jackpots’ they’d come up against. “Half of those things you never taught me about, you never even mentioned, and when we  _ did _  see them we didn’t have any accurate, up to date information on how to deal with them!”

Arguments between Allison and Chris seemed to escalate faster now that her mother was gone, even after the two had spent time away to heal the festering wounds in their relationship. Stiles knew the course they’d take and, pushing his receding panic to the back of his mind, threw them off course. He pulled away from his dad.

“So we don’t have any information on them, nothing recent. Okay, that’s fine. That’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before.” He looked from Chris to Allison to Peter, who was lurking in the corner. There was a general consensus of no’s before he nodded. “Okay, so what do we have on the hunters? Where are they coming from, what faction do they belong to? Is the pack in danger by them being here, truce or no? And why would they be hunting something that, as far as you know, no longer exists?” All prudent questions that they needed to answer, but also distractions.

Chris gestured at the binder, which Stiles slid towards Derek, the alpha wolf having been leaning against his arm to read over Stiles’ shoulder. “They’re a roving faction, not stationed anywhere in particular but generally sticking to the West Coast. These ones…” He pursed his lips and visibly steadied himself, “The world is black and white to them. They aren’t cruel exactly, but they’re efficient to the point of extinction. Why they’d be chasing a fox, I have no idea. For all I know it could have been a contract they picked up somewhere, following some leads that will eventually return nothing. But I can’t say for certain. They’re hard to reach and I can’t do much until they’re physically in town and I can confront them.

“They’re efficient, but they don’t mindlessly attack. They’re aware of a pack claiming territory in Beacon Hills, but they’re adhering to the code and likely won’t seek out confrontation.” He shrugged, looking bothered. “I don’t have as many facts as I’d like, but this is what I  _ do _  have.”

“It’s not a lot,” Derek muttered, eyes roving over the sketches and lines of text, some of which had been copy and pasted from the bestiary before being printed and slipped into the binder. “But at least we aren’t entirely blind.”

The admission from Derek was a big one. When the pack at first formed he would never have trusted Chris. He would have threatened and interrogated until he couldn’t conceivably get more information. But as the pack had settled and gained allies, Derek too had mellowed. He wasn’t the same rash, angry man anymore.

Stiles shared a meaningful look with his dad, who twitched his nose and pursed his lips. The inevitable had arrived, and they had to make a decision towards what to do next. He looked back to Derek and watched as he compiled his thoughts.

“You said there were two groups?”

Chris nodded, “Three should have arrived already, or will later today. They were the more eager hunters. I’ve met them before. Alexander is their leader; he’s vicious and determined. Money and power are more important to him than the actual code, but he skirts the line. The other two are his ‘apprentices’,” Chris scowled at the term. “They’ve been in the fold a few years but I don’t know their names, they’re basically an extension of him.”

Chris unfurled a map of Beacon Hills and the immediate area, his own version rather than the one upstairs in Derek’s library. He pointed out likely spots where the hunters would enter the territory to begin their search and the pack quickly paired off to do recon. When only John, Derek, Chris, Stiles, and Peter were left, the youngest stood and immediately began to fidget.

“I uh, I’m gonna go some research at my place — see if I can’t find anything we can use to make them move on or convince them they’re wasting time.” His fingertips were burning and prickling again, and the back waistband of his jeans bulged beneath his hoodie. He was starting to sweat.

Derek and Peter were sniffing the air and side-eyeing him while Chris and John exchanged glances. John stood from his position hunched over the map and, with a few pops to his back, clapped Chris on the shoulder.

“I’ll see what I can dig up on my end and I’ll call when I have something. Stiles?”

The brunet jumped a little, jerked his head in a nod, and more or less skittered out of the room towards the front of the house. He made it to the porch before a big hand closed around his upper arm and halted his progress.

“What's wrong?” Derek's grip on his arm was firm but gentle, a change from the early days.

“N-nothing, I've just got a hunch and, you know, I need to go work it out.” Shit. Shit shit shit. He'd just flat out lied to Derek, easily audible in the way his heart was jackhammering behind his ribs.

The alpha frowned but, after a moment's consideration, let go. “Stiles… whatever it is, you should know by now that you can tell us — me. There's something going on and it has you spooked. Let us help.” No threats, no pushing. He was simply offering aid with gentle words.

Stiles’ heart broke a little more as he realised how earnest Derek was being. He was being completely honest, willing to open himself up to whatever burden was weighing Stiles down. And Stiles… Stiles wasn't sure what to do.

So he reached out to grasp Derek's wrist in one hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I just… I need to think. I'll text you, ok?”

Without hesitation, Derek nodded. “I'll keep my phone charged.”

A laugh bubbled out of Stiles' chest, closer to the gekkering he would make in a full shift than anything human. He clapped a hand over his mouth, startled, then skittered away to his jeep. Not once did he check to see if Derek watched him go —

— but he knew the wolf was watching.

 

—————————————

 

Stiles spent more time than he wanted to admit rolling the decision over in his head. It wasn't just  _ his _  decision. His dad had a say here, too. But since the younger fox had come clean about his involvement with Beacon Hills’ supernatural problems his father had taken to listening quietly and deferring judgement to his son. At first, it was terrifying: why was he the one making these calls? His dad had the experience and the knowledge that Stiles needed to make these decisions. Eventually, through the fear and the anxiety, he realised that while his dad hadn't truly given up control as a parent, he did take a step back to see how Stiles would act.

Part of being a fox was about cunning. How good were your plans? Your resources? How thoroughly did you scout out every possible outcome before deciding on one? This was how they'd survived this long, how his mom and her family had survived and propagated for thousands of years.

John had realised that Stiles’ ties to the pack were their greatest threat as well as their greatest chance for survival in this town. And knowing that, he had taken to listening to his son.

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table.

Stiles’ fingers, the tips displaying dark claws, drew circles on the wood top. John's hands were wholly human and rested flat on the table. It was a waiting game, and as always, Stiles broke first.

“I think it's time.”

John raised one salt and pepper brow.

Stiles scowled and wiggled his fingers at his dad. “Stop that. You know what I mean. We...we should tell them.”

“What, specifically, should we say?”

It had taken Stiles a while to realise that this wasn't his dad's way of being patronising. He wanted Stiles to elaborate, to explain himself rather than spit out sentence fragments and hope his listeners clued in.

A huff, “We should tell them what we are and why we've hidden it from them. The pack… they've proven they aren't going to turn on us just because we're different. I mean,” he waved a hand in the air, “we aren't exactly the most homogeneous of groups. We're like one of those scrap quilts that old people have on their spare beds. A bunch of little pieces stuck together, you know?” Another huff and Stiles’ hands dropped to his sides. “I'm… I'm tired.”

He breathed deeply, arranging his words carefully. “I'm tired of hiding and lying. I'm proud of who and what I am, and I think we're safe to tell our friends — our family — this big secret that's kept us from finally feeling like we belong.”

There was only silence after that. The faint ticking of a clock from upstairs, the creak of pipes as the washer went into the rinse cycle, the  _ whoosh  _ of the central air through the vents.

“Stiles…”

He covered his eyes with his hands and stared into the warm darkness of his eyelids.

A broad, calloused hand cupped the back of Stiles’ neck and squeezed. “I think you're right.”

A soft warble of sound broke from Stiles. He scrambled out of his chair and around the table to throw his arms around his dad’s neck. High pitched warbles tumbles from Stiles until they coalesced into full gekkers of sound that his dad responded to with similar sounds. They sat awkwardly tangled on the kitchen chair until both had cried themselves out.

Stiles eventually disentangled himself from his dad and roughly rubbed his eyes and under his nose. His face was probably splotchy and red from all the crying, but it had been a good cry, a release, for both of them. His dad’s face was definitely redder than it had been, and the salt and pepper of his hair was darker and longer than earlier, a kind of beard had grown in around his neck and jaw.

Stiles’ partial shifts tended to his hands, tail, and ears; the parts of him he could move and emote with. His dad always had a tendency to grow a sudden ruff around his neck when he was emotional. It was actually funny to watch him run for a scarf in the middle of summer because of it. The younger fox flicked his orange ears and tugged at the waistband of his pants until his tail could pop free. It swished, stretching out, and he felt even better.

“Are you going to call him, or am I?” John stretched out in the chair, clawed fingers absently skritching at the ruff under his chin.

“Uhh,” Stiles froze, debating. “Him who?” Yup, just play dumb.

John’s raised brow and disapproving look made Stiles huff.

“Ugh. Stop that, you aren’t allowed to be perceptive anymore. It’ll give us both nightmares.”

A snort. “Son, I have more than a few nightmares already, and you two haven’t even done anything.” He leant forward with a pointy-toothed grin and bright yellow eyes, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to give a few to Hale as well.”

With a screech, Stiles shoved his dad’s face away with a palm. “Nope! Not happening! Bad!”

John laughed and batted at his son’s hand before standing and enveloping him in a tight hug. “I’m going to go over to the Argent’s: Chris and I need to have our own talk.” He rolled his eyes at Stiles’ wide, horrified stare. “Nope, you don’t get to make that face. No judgement allowed.”

“Ugh!” Stiles wiggled free and, backing towards the hall, pointed a finger at his dad. “You and I are going to have a talk about your taste in men later!” He paused. “Much later! Actually, maybe never! Bye!” He ducked around the door frame and up the stairs, his dad snickering in the kitchen.

Stiles had a wolf to call.

—————————

_ Free? _  He sent. Texting with claws, especially on a touchscreen, was always tricky. Thankfully fox claws were blunter than wolf claws and therefore he was less likely to slice his screen to pieces.

He sat and stared at his phone for a few minutes, tail flicking anxiously against his knee. The … of Derek typing appeared, disappeared, appeared again, disappeared, stayed gone and then…

“Stiles?”

“ _ Jesus crackerjack flappy bird christ! _ ” Stiles screeched and launched himself off his bed. He landed on the floor in a tangle of limbs and blankets and, in his panic, there was the sound of ripping cloth as his claws tore through the cloth. “... _ fuck _ …” he hissed, softly and with feeling.

“Uh… Stiles?” Came the question.

The fox covered the top of his head with a torn sheet before popping up from behind the mattress. His ears were cramped and held tight to his skull but had they been free they would have stood straight up at seeing a very confused Derek with one foot through the open window.

“Hey!” His voice broke and Stiles coughed, trying again. “Hey, big guy! W-what’s up?”

Derek frowned but finished climbing inside. He even toed off his shoes and left them on the little paw print floor mat Stiles had installed under the window for his ‘guests’.

“You were upset earlier. I wanted to check in.” He stood there in his socks, frowning.

Stiles’ heart beat a little faster and he jammed his tail between his legs to keep it from flailing side to side. Derek had grown with the pack, opening himself up to  _ emotions _  and the ability to share them with others. He wasn’t particularly good at it — Stiles encouraged that he just needed more practice — but he tried. Usually, that meant whoever it was would have to go to him, he didn’t seek them out.

For Derek to of come to Stiles first, especially after Stiles had already said he’d be in touch later, meant the wolf was very invested in Stiles’ wellbeing. It was almost painfully sweet.

“I, uh yeah. I’m — “

Derek sniffed and stepped forward quickly, cutting Stiles off as he mounted the bed. The tip of Derek’s nose tickled as it tracked over Stiles’ cheeks and chin and — he must be imagining this — the barest touch of a wet tongue brushed against his jaw.

“You’ve been crying; what happened?” Big hands grasped Stiles’ shoulders and Derek attempted to manhandle the younger man free of his blanket burrito.

“Ack! Stop! Hey! Consent! Consent!” Stiles yelped and wiggled, trying wildly to get free of Derek’s hands. “Ohmygod would you  _ stop _ ?!” He slapped at Derek’s face with one hand while the other clutched the blankets in a tight fist under his chin. He probably looked like a babushka from the old country. “Words! Use your  _ words! _ ”

Snorting unamusedly, Derek relented and sat back on the bed, legs crooked but open. “Fine,” he grumbled, “but you’re the one who has explaining to do.” He rolled his hand in the air in a ‘go on’ motion.

Stiles stuck out his tongue.

It took him a moment to form the words properly. This wasn’t just anything he was about to tell Derek. It was the largest, most important fact of his life; one that literally could and would get him and his dad killed if the wrong people knew. The wrong people that were already coming to town. It was terrifying, and for a second he felt his throat close up with panic. But then Derek shifted and his scent tickled Stiles’ nose. He smelled like leather and fabric softener, a little of the gel deodorant he liked, maybe the tiniest bit of hair gel, but not much more than himself. Derek didn’t smell like wet dog, no matter how many jokes Stiles’ cracked. He just smelled like...home…

“I know who the werefox is and where they live.”

Oh. Okay. Not that he’d meant to say but there it was.

“Ah… You do? How?” Derek’s mouth stayed open in a moue of confusion, brows crinkled. “Actually, wait, why am I bothering to ask: of course you know. You’re always the first one to figure these things out.” It sounded like a complaint the way he grumbled it, but the tiny uptick to one side of Derek’s mouth gave away his pride. “Who are they? Are they threat or should we offer help?”

“They never wanted to hurt anyone.” It was the truth. Stiles’ parents had moved to Beacon Hills to escape the hunts, to find somewhere they could grow together without fearing for their lives. Beacon Hills had been safe, especially with the Hale pack controlling the territory, though Stiles only knew that in hindsight. “They just want to be left alone… They never wanted trouble. We… the pack should help them. But that decision isn’t up to me.”

Derek frowned and tilted his head to the side. “Of course it’s up to you,” he muttered. “Stiles, your opinion matters as much as anyone else’s. The Pack would be lost without you. Hell, most of us would literally be dead without you.” Alright, he had a point there.

“Look, you know you can trust me.” Derek’s voice was low and soft and he held his hands out, palms up. “Let me help them, it’s what any decent person would do.”

Stiles bit his lip. This shouldn’t be so hard. He  _ did _  know Derek. He  _ did _  know he could trust him. But...he’d held this secret in for so long it was like a physical force keeping it from coming out.

“I…” Stiles ground his teeth. Tears were gathering behind his eyes and he clenched them shut. His hands left the blanket to cover his mouth and he sucked in air between his teeth.

“Stiles?”

A hand touched Stiles’ shoulder and he realised he’d bent over, head against the side of the mattress.

“Hey, Stiles, come on. It’s okay, it’ll be okay.” Derek sounded scared and, oh god, he never wanted to hear Derek scared again.

“I’m scared.”

There was hardly a pause before the bed creaked and Derek joined him on the floor. Strong arms enveloped him and Stiles burrowed into the crook of Derek’s neck while tears began to run.

“Shhh, it’s okay. You don’t need to be scared. There’s nothing to be scared of.” He stroked down Stiles’ back, shushing him. “Are you close to them? Is that why?”

Stiles could only nod. It was the truth, just not exactly.

“Did you just find this out? That they’re not human, I mean.” As Stiles shook his head Derek sighed and gave him a squeeze. “I’m not mad, you know.”

He wasn’t?

“I trust you to keep my secrets… I can’t respect you less for keeping someone else’s. And, if they were a danger to us and you knew there’s no possible way you wouldn’t have told us.”

Stiles nodded emphatically until Derek began to laugh.

“But I need to know. At the very least, you need to tell me so I can help them like you helped me. If you don’t think we need to we don’t have to tell the pack, but I need to know.” Derek was so soft and warm, and he smelled like safety.

Stiles didn’t want to leave this spot.

“I — “ he croaked. Then paused, coughed, and tried again. “I have to tell you something first.”

Derek paused long enough to rearrange them so that Stiles was reclined on his chest rather than awkwardly scrunched up. “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

And Stiles did. They’d become close the last few years. Derek’s standoffish attitude had melted into a man deprived of human contact. He craved casual touches and so did Stiles. They took to touching shoulders, ruffling hair, cuddling during movie nights. But while Stiles was ecstatic that Derek was opening up, it was still frustrating. It was getting difficult to tell whether the touches were friendly, or if maybe they were something more.

“I… I don’t want to be your friend.”

Derek went still and stiff behind him.

Stiles could nearly hear the way the bigger man’s heart stopped.

“Shit — that came out wrong! Fuck, hold on. Shit, okay, wait, let me try again.” Stiles pushed away from Derek’s chest, lost his footing, slipped, tried again, and finally managed to sit up with the blanket still on his head.

“Stiles — “

“No, shut up, let me say it right!” He jabbed a finger at Derek’s nose and the man almost went cross-eyed watching it. “I don’t want to be your  _ friend _  because I want to be your  _ boy _ friend!”

Oh shit.

“Oh.” Wide hazel-green eyes stared up at Stiles. Derek’s jaw dropped open. He looked like someone had just dunked him in cold water.

“Uh...yeeeeeahhh… Um…” Stiles, immediately regretting his decision began to backpedal. “I mean, you don’t, like, have to say anything back and, I mean—! I’m not expecting you to like, treat me any differently if you don’t feel the same but like,  _ fuck _  — you’re so fucking cuddly, man. Like seriously, I don’t even need a mattress I’d just use you as a pillow the rest of my life. And, fuck you’re like, hot like burning — seriously, what the fuck is up with your gene pool? Did your ancestors like — “

Two hands snatched at the blankets against Stiles’ chest, jerked him forwards, and then a pair of hot lips were pressed against his own.

The strangled, garbled gekker than burst free of Stiles’ vocal cords was not at all his proudest moment. But the second he clued in that — hey! You’re being kissed you fuck-nugget! — he pressed back against Derek with abandon. He wiggled and scrambled and somehow managed to spider himself across Derek’s lap to bury his fingers in the other man’s dark hair.  _ Jaysus _  this was fucking heaven!

Eventually, they broke for air and Stiles felt as if in slow motion -  the slide of Derek’s fingers up through his hair and over the base of his ears.

His very non-human, very fox-like, ears.

There was a noticeable pause between the moment Derek’s fingers found Stiles’ ears and the next when he heaved a deep, exhausted sigh.

“Of-fucking- _ course _ .”

Stiles may have burst out laughing in Derek’s face.

He may also have been tickled within an inch of his life.

He may also  _ also _  have spent the rest of the night alternating between planning how to reroute the hunters and apologising to Derek.

But as far as anyone else would know, nothing happened.

  
  
  


Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a prompt for the 2018 Sterek GlompFest! My prompt was # 39: Stiles is a werefox, which is really rare so was taught to not tell anyone. Pack doesn’t know until hunters come looking for him.  
> \-----  
> As you can probably guess, I had great aspirations for this fic. But family emergencies, general sickness, and mid-terms got in the way of the great 'Were-fox-fixer-Stiles' fic I wanted to write so, in the back of your minds know that Stiles is the one subtly handling the stray hunters that pose threats to the pack. He's quick, vicious, and conniving: the perfect emissary for a pack of fail-wolves.


End file.
